


From Just Outside the Box

by WelpThisIsHappening



Series: Out of the Frying Pan [4]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Celebrity, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-15
Updated: 2018-06-19
Packaged: 2019-05-23 16:35:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14937950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WelpThisIsHappening/pseuds/WelpThisIsHappening
Summary: Emma Swan did not need an intervention. So, she was kind of, sort of freaking out. That was expected. It was called nesting. The websites said it would happen. At least she wasn't cooking. She had soccer replays to watch, anyway. And a kid to get ready for. A kid.Killian Jones was not freaking out. That was kind of a lie. No one needed to know that. It was going to be fine and good and great because that's what the websites said. And he couldn't stress-bake while he was in the hospital. He had a kid to get ready for. A kid.Or: an Out of the Frying Pan sequel with the World Cup





	1. Chapter 1

“The numbers are still fine.”

“Fine?”

“Yes, fine.”

“What does that mean?”

Ruby tilted her head, something that looked like amusement and felt a hell of a lot like judgement flashing across her face, and Emma slumped in the chair. She tried, at least. There wasn’t really much slumping to be had, mostly because at some point in the last few weeks, she’d lost what little control of her body she had left.

She felt unwieldy – which was a God awful word and a God awful expression, but she couldn’t come up with a better way to describe it and there was still three weeks of this.

Not that this was bad.

It wasn’t. It was good and several other adjectives that were much better than unwieldy, but Emma felt enormous and cumbersome and that was also better than unwieldy. And she was worried about her show’s numbers when said show took a leave of absence because she was taking a leave of absence and the word for _that_ was maternity leave.

Emma Swan-Jones was going on maternity leave.

And she wasn’t really supposed to be in the chair she was kind of slumping in.

“Fine means fine,” Ruby said, and her expression hadn’t changed. “The actual definition of the word fine. We honestly cannot talk about this more. Why are you freaking out now?”

“I’m not freaking out.”

“Yuh huh. Try that again.”

“I’m not.”

“Once more with feeling.”

“Oh my God,” Emma grumbled, twisting her hair over her shoulder and it must have been at least six-thousand degrees in Ruby’s office. It felt like she was sitting on the surface of several different suns, and this distinct lack of bodily control was getting old real fast.

It had gotten old in, like, her second trimester, but that was neither here nor there and Emma was happy. She was so goddamn happy she was positive she was radiating with it at this point, some kind of maternal glow and happily ever after that led her to agree to a World Cup viewing party on the same weekend her last new show was going to run before she was taking a six-month break and Killian had been filming that afternoon.

That may have been why she’d taken a car uptown.

And Ruby probably knew that too.

Ruby definitely knew that.

The arch of her left eyebrow proved it.

“You want to keep doing this vaguely entertaining banter or you want to actually get to the crux of the issue here?” Ruby asked, sitting up straighter and things suddenly felt very official. Emma rolled her eyes.

“The crux of the issue is that I’m going to be off TV screens for six months straight.”

“That’s patently untrue.”

“What?”

Ruby blinked. And tilted her head a slightly different direction. And then she laughed – loudly, head thrown back and shoulders shaking and Emma was momentarily worried about the state of her chair, but Ruby had ridiculously nice office furniture and that crick at the base of Emma’s spine had almost entirely disappeared.

Maybe she could get Ruby to give her this chair.

To sit in. All night. During this party.

She hoped they had enough food.

“Em, are you serious?” Ruby asked skeptically, laughter clinging to the words and there were tears in her eyes. She shook her head, expression turning decidedly amused now. The whole thing felt a little patronizing. “We’ve done this several times, I promise. Have you not been listening?”

“I’ve totally been listening.”

“You’re not doing a very good job of proving it. This circles me back around to the freakout.”

“Who’s freaking out?”

Emma twisted at the sound of Mary Margaret’s voice, and she didn’t know who to glare at first. She picked Ruby. The choice wasn’t actually that hard.

“What the hell is this?” Emma shouted, waving her hand through open air like that would get Ruby’s eyebrow to agree to the laws of gravity. “Did you call backup.”

“Yes,” Ruby answered.

“Oh.”

“Didn’t think I’d agree that quickly, huh?”

Mary Margaret clicked her tongue in reproach and she must have left school early. Emma’s body was not emotionally equipped to handle that. “Ok, there’s no need to lord it over her,” Mary Margaret muttered, letting the bag on her shoulder drop onto the floor. “And it’s not backup so much as it is support. For whatever it is you’re freaking out about.”

“I’m not freaking out!”

“God, it honestly gets worse the more you say it,” Ruby laughed. “That’s almost impressive, Em. Not many people can do that.”

Emma tried to get her glare to intensify, but she was fairly positive that was impossible. She settled for sighing dramatically. “What is this plan we’ve apparently gone over so many times?”

“If you were listening to me instead of thinking how cute your kid with Jones is going to be, you’d know the answer to that question already.”

“You’re enjoying this.”

“Yes.”

“It’s weirding me out that you don’t want to banter more.”

“Ruby,” Mary Margaret chastised, balancing on the edge of the desk. “C’mon, just spit it out. You’re not helping. And,” she added with a smile, “that kid, whatever it turns out to be, is going to be crazy cute.”

Ruby nearly fell on the floor.

Emma was certain her laughter was going to be stuck in her head on an endless loop for the rest of the night. Maybe it would time up with whatever cheers Henry and Roland had inevitably come up with. There had been some discussion about who each of them were going to root for – a fight, really, but Killian had rested a hand on each kid’s shoulders and then there was talking and agreeing and apologizing and Henry mumbled something about _not meaning to insult the history of English football_ that was, apparently, enough for Roland.

The whole thing messed with Emma’s pulse.

That was probably why she forgot the plan she and Ruby had come up when she realized there was going to be a kid and announced, in no uncertain terms, that she did not want to know what kind of kid it was going to be.

She was happy.

She didn’t need specifics. Or questionable gender-based color schemes.

And maybe that had inspired her own discussion with Killian and maybe now, three weeks before the kid was slated to arrive, Emma kind of, sort of, regretted the outcome of that discussion.

She really wanted to know.

She really wanted this kid.

She really needed to come up with a better phrase than _slated to arrive_.

“Whatever it turns out to be,” Ruby echoed, her body still rocking with the force of her laughter. Mary Margaret sighed. “M’s you’ve made it sound like an alien.”

“No, I have not! I’m just saying…you know if it’s a boy or a girl or…whatever, stop laughing and remind Emma that there are reruns of her show and an entire fanbase that will not disappear because she’s not coming up with new recipes.”

“I mean you just did it, so…”

“Oh, yeah, that’s kind of true, isn’t it?”

“This is why I called for backup.”

“I thought we weren’t using that word,” Emma said, cutting into the previously requested banter and Ruby grinned like they’d just won several Emmys.

“Semantics. It’s really going to be fine. No matter how much you freak out.”

“I’m still not freaking out.”

“You’re still an absolutely terrible liar, but I’ll give you this because you didn’t find out the gender of your soon-to-arrive bundle of joy and now you’re worried because you can’t pick a name and you like lists and order and Killian probably not-so-secretly has forty-seven names he’d like to use and forty-seven kids he’d like to have and—“

“—How is there more?”

“And are we really not going to address the use of the phrase _bundle of joy_?” Mary Margaret asked skeptically. Emma smiled. And took a deep breath. That was probably good for the bundle. Or pumpkin. Or alien. God, no, not an alien.

They really should have found out.

“Because,” Mary Margaret continued. “If I’m going to be mocked for my use of the English language, then I think it’s only fair Ruby gets drawn over several metaphorical coals.”

Emma let out a low whistle, resting her hands on her stomach and twisting until something that might have been her entire spine cracked. “Wow, M’s that was kind of harsh, actually.”

“I’m way behind on filling out report cards.”

“Just tell everyone they’re a pleasure to have in class,” Ruby suggested. “It’s generic enough to not be a compliment, but also good enough that no kid can get grounded.”

“I’m not teaching high school. Who is grounding elementary school kids?”

“I was a very rebellious eight-year-old.”

Emma’s head was spinning. And, really, she should have been used to it by now. Her life was, well, it was pretty goddamn fucking fantastic and despite the freak out she’d never actually admit to, she was fairly positive whatever kind of kid showed up in three weeks was going to be absolutely adored by an extended family that was kind of fairy-tale esque and parents who loved each other an almost questionable amount.

She hoped Killian won Iron Chef again.

He totally won Iron Chef again.

“M’s,” she said, interrupting, again, and Ruby’s eyebrows should have a competition with Killian’s eyebrows for supreme ridiculousness. “Should you be filling out report cards?”

Mary Margaret winced, squeezing one eye closed and Emma still couldn’t slump, but she certainly made an admirable effort. “I mean, technically,” Mary Margaret said, holding her hands up before Emma could argue more or question something else. “Everyone is done with classes and, like I said, they’re eight so it’s not like I’ve got final exams, but there was some kind faculty thing and I was supposed to help organize the library.”

“You blew off library organization?”

“I mean that sounds pretty horrible, right? And it’s crazy hot in that room.”

“You work at one of the best private schools in the city, they have air conditioning.”

“Yeah, but I’m trying to make sure you don’t feel bad.”

Emma wished the oxygen in her lungs would stay in her lungs. She hadn’t read nearly as much as Killian had in the last few months – she’d been pregnant before, she reasoned, although this was nothing like before and before seemed like some kind of dream now and they should _pick a name for their kid_ – but she was fairly certain continued oxygen to her brain was necessary for continued consciousness.

But, as per usual, her body didn’t seem to give a damn and Emma kept sighing and huffing and, maybe, crying and the party later was going to be fun.

She and Killian had come up with a menu.

And then got caught making out behind the bar by Henry.

So, really, Emma’s life was some kind of ridiculous movie with absurdly good food at this point.

“I’ve lost all control of my emotions,” Emma shrugged. “But this is next level nice, M’s. Even if it’s unnecessary interference.”

“Ah, but that’s our game,” Ruby said. “We butt in, we question, we plan quasi-interventions because I know part of the reason you came here today was to stalk your husband’s set.”

Emma flushed, but she was really terrible at lying and Henry hadn’t even been surprised by the bar incident, just grumbled a string of curses under his breath that, if his parents weren’t so preoccupied, probably would have earned him his own grounding, and walked away.

After he grabbed four cookies out of the kitchen.

“Whatever,” Emma grumbled, and the _whatever_ in her body kicked at her ribs. Mary Margaret and Ruby’s eyes both got dangerously wide when she gasped. “I’m fine, I’m fine, I’m fine. We’re just practicing soccer and probably spin kicks or corner kicks or something.”

Mary Margaret sniffled.

Ruby ducked her eyes.

Emma laughed.

“Oh my God,” she grinned, and they were going to single-handedly fix America’s soccer issue with the birth of this kid. She was convinced. “You guys are both great, big enormous saps.”

“You are stalking your husband,” Ruby argued.

“I don’t think that’s possible.”

“Ask David.”

“No.”

“Ah, damn, I was really hoping for more banter there.”

“Yeah, that seems to be kind of the theme,” Emma mumbled, and maybe they should have saved all this intervention stuff for Eric because the World Cup menu was, actually, kind of absurd. She was equal parts excited for and dreading the schnitzel.

And had flat out refused to allow bratwurst.

“You still want to talk about the numbers, don’t you?” Ruby asked knowingly, Mary Margaret’s attempt at turning her laugh into some other sound falling woefully short. Emma nodded. “Yeah, yeah, I figured. M’s covered all the high points. It’s the summer, Em. You don’t usually have new episodes in the summer.”

“Yeah, but I’m filming new episodes.”

“And now you’re…filming a kid.”

“That didn’t come out the way you wanted it to, did it?”

Ruby shook her head. “Not at all. The sentiment is the same though. You get to do this, Emma. You get to live in this moment and only this moment and you don’t have to worry about anything except how many diapers you’re going to have to buy and what to do with all the painfully adorable clothing Dor and I keep ordering.”

“How much painfully adorable clothing are we talking about here?”

“That’s not important.”

“You brought it up!”

“Way too much,” Mary Margaret mumbled, earning a pointed glare from Ruby that she ignored in favor of flashing a conspiratorial grin Emma’s direction. “It’s because they don’t have any suggestions to follow.”

Emma sighed. Again. She was going to set a record. “That was heavy-handed, M’s,” she accused. “Killian and I decided.”

“I know, I know, and I’m not passing judgement. Really. I’m just explaining why Ruby’s going to max out all her credit cards at several baby boutiques.”

“Ok, that seemed a little judgmental, honestly,” Ruby groaned. “Can we focus? Em, the show is great. It’s been doing great and better than great and, I mean, people know you’re pregnant. It’s not like we’ve tried to hide that.”

They hadn’t.

There’d been _several_ discussions about that, but Emma was done with metaphorical boxes and her life was her life and she loved it and the internet had lost its collective mind the first time she showed up on screen with a ring on her left finger.

So, it only made sense. And she wanted to keep cooking – couldn’t really mask _unwieldily_ after awhile, wasn’t really trying to, and she and Killian had made chocolate gingerbread pie on the holiday special that year. They were a family. With traditions. And the paperwork to prove it.

Henry had yelled “Mom and Dad” during the bar makeout incident.

“We run reruns in the summer,” Ruby continued. “We run a few more during the fall and then, when you want to and the soon-to-premiere, incredibly fashion forward infant shows up, you come back and you keep making fantastic food and Killian keeps winning Iron Chef and then you probably open up a national franchise.”

Emma scoffed, but there were still tears in her eyes and her body temperature was finally starting to even out. “What was that last part?”

Ruby’s grin spread across her face in slow motion, far too knowing to be comforting, but almost reassuring, and Emma was totally going to steal this chair. “Are you not planning on taking over the culinary world?” Ruby asked. “Seemed like the next logical step.”

“After?”

“The painfully adorable kid, God, Em, keep up.”

“Oh, right, right, of course.”

Mary Margaret laughed, something that sounded like _settling_ in a way that wasn’t really that, but might have been comfort and happiness and Emma had demanded cheeseburgers on the menu that night. For her. And no one else.

Except maybe Henry.

And Roland.

Maybe a discussion about culinary domination was overdue.

Emma opened her mouth, not sure if she was going to thank her friends for being her friends or calming the freakout she totally was having, but the words that came out were as much a surprise to her as they, clearly, were to Mary Margaret and Ruby. “Where did you buy this chair?”

Ruby’s head fell onto her forearms, shoulders shaking and hair draped across her desk, and Mary Margaret squeezed Emma’s hand with a familiarity that nearly left them all crying again. And, really, Emma kind of knew he was there – could dimly hear the footsteps and that was familiar too, but those were sentimental thoughts and Emma had already done enough emotional things that day, so she didn’t look up when she heard the sound of his shoes or the click of his teeth and his arms were probably crossed over his chest when he leaned against the open doorway.

“How’d you get up here?” Killian asked, eyebrows doing something ridiculous when she moved. Ruby laughed louder. Mary Margaret might have mumbled _aw_ under her breath.

“I sat in the backseat of a cab.”

“Cab?”

“Yes.”

“You didn’t call a car?”

Emma shrugged. “It was more spur of the moment than anything else. I’m not cooking though, so, you know…by comparison.”

“Comparison,” Killian echoed, and this conversation was going nowhere fast. Honestly, they should have looked up the contact information for Guinness World Records because Ruby had absolutely set several for both the length and volume of her laughter.

“Did you win?” Emma asked. “And are you done?”

Killian nodded slowly, ignoring her huff of frustration when he didn’t actually answer either question, and Ruby finally pulled her head up. “You know, Em,” she said. “I might have been wrong before. Maybe Killian’s stalking you. You just have a sixth sense she was up here or how’d that work?”

“Regina told me she saw her getting out of the car.”

“That makes way more sense. Scientifically, you know.”

“Yuh huh.”

“I haven’t really been here that long,” Emma reasoned. “Sitting the whole time and everything. And really nothing about the not cooking thing? Because that was absolutely a positive.”

Killian hummed, but the almost-frown softened, the pinch between his eyebrows disappearing when that one muscle in his temple stopped jumping. Mary Margaret totally _aw’ed_ again. “Were you considering breaking into the kitchen, love?”

“The thought crossed my mind. It’s a lot of food. And at least partially my kitchen.”

“More than partially.”

“Agh, this is gross,” Ruby whined. “Please wait until you are back in an office that you own, partially or otherwise, to start making out ok. I don’t need my psyche ruined too.”

Emma’s eyes widened, but she knew she was blushing, and Killian tugged on the back of his hair. “Henry might have mentioned it a couple days ago,” Mary Margaret explained. “The bar thing. Not like in a bad way, just a…Ariel said you guys hadn’t been spotted making out in hallways recently and—“

“—Oh my God, M’s, stop,” Emma pleaded, shooting a glance Killian’s direction. The tips of his ears had gone red.

“At least, you know, you guys are super, totally normal, run-of-the-mill parents,” Ruby grinned. “Plus he’s a teenager. If he’s not offended by you at all times, then you’re doing something wrong.”

“You’re a pillar of support, Lucas,” Killian muttered.

“I do what I can. And I really don’t think Henry hates you.”

“Jeez, Rubes,” Emma sighed. She leaned into Killian’s hand when he moved behind her, fingers tracing over the ridge of her spine and the back of her neck and maybe they could just make out some more and ignore soccer.

The pumpkin kicked again.

That felt like a sign.

“Well, as long as you don’t think so, Lucas, that’s clearly all that matters,” Killian said. Ruby narrowed her eyes.

“Your sarcasm is going to ruin the paint on my walls. You got to film again tomorrow?”

“Yes.”

“Man, do you also need an intervention?”

“No, this is an intervention?”

Ruby made a noise – not quite a laugh, more just general disbelief and something that sounded a bit like a growl – pushing away from her desk and standing up so abruptly she nearly knocked several stacks of paperwork on the floor. “Don’t let Emma cook later. She’s totally going to try.”

“A fact I’m well aware of.”

“Then we’re all on the same page.”

She was gone a moment later, Mary Margaret not far behind after she confirmed a seven o’clock party and the continued guarantee that she couldn’t bring anything, leaving Emma in the chair with her husband’s fingers working out a pinched muscle in her shoulder.

“God, how do you do that?” Emma mumbled, but Killian just laughed in response, pressing a kiss to the top of her hair and letting his fingers drift over the swell of her stomach. It couldn’t have been a particularly comfortable position, twisted as he was over her back and the chair and Emma was only kind of annoyed Ruby hadn’t answered her question, but he didn’t move – getting a rather aggressive kick for his efforts.

“Goal,” Emma said, dragging out the word in an absolutely horrible imitation of several different broadcasters and they were going to show several games at once. She was going to make out with Killian in the hallway. “C’mon, Lieutenant, I promise I won’t cook, but I’m totally going to watch while you do and you can tell me all about how you wrecked some other chef today.”

It took several minutes of almost heated discussion for Killian to actually agree to Emma coming into the kitchen –

”That’s half mine, you don’t get to tell me, that I can’t go in there.”

“It’s a safety concern, Swan.”

“I’m not going to stab myself!”

“Swan.”

“Half mine!”

And he sighed and huffed and did something else with his eyes, made them bluer or something, that almost got Emma to relent, or possibly grab his face and kiss him, hard, but then he kissed her and none of it really seemed to matter after that.

“I’m not worried about the fractions, love,” he murmured against her lips, prosthetic falling to her stomach and that seemed to be happening more and more every day. It hadn’t at first, the quiet nerves Killian had never really voiced obvious as soon as Emma started to show, and she wasn’t going to mention it.

She wasn’t going to talk about it if he didn’t want to, but that lasted all of a week – particularly when he had to twist his arm at decidedly awkward angles to touch her because he kept trying to touch her and that made her heart beat irregularly.

So she’d brought it up and promised it was _fine_ because that was, apparently, the only adjective any of them knew, finally just tugging his hand forward and resting the plastic on her stomach and Killian stared at her like several different suns. And possibly a few outlying moons. Emma was going to scandalize all their friends with how much she kept trying to make out with her husband all night.

– but she settled into her spot a few inches away from one of the stoves eventually, the edge of the counter pressing almost pleasantly in the small of her back.

“You going to tell me how filming went now?” Emma asked. “You won, right?”  
  
Killian’s eyes flashed, but his lips quirked slightly and it was probably weird to be vaguely attracted to her husband’s ability to tie his own apron strings. “Do you think I didn’t win?”

“That’s not an answer. And a double negative.”  
  
“What were you doing in Ruby’s office this afternoon?”  
  
“Why was Regina spying?”

“That’s not an answer,” he said, grabbing a bowl and flour and she hadn’t noticed the wooden spoon stuck in his back pocket. That was ridiculously attractive too.

“What was your secret ingredient?”  
  
He grinned. And started making Belgian waffles. “Peaches.”  
  
“Peaches?”  
  
“That’s what I said, Swan,” Killian muttered, but there was still a smile and she didn’t care much about fractions either. Not when there was a _theirs_ and a _them_ and Mom and Dad, even when being screamed by a vaguely scandalized sixteen-year-old, sounded pretty goddamn fantastic. “And of course I won.”  
  
“What was your best dish?”  
  
“All of these questions seemed double-edged, love.”  
  
Emma made a face, Killian cracking several eggs and mixing without measuring and she still kind of wanted to cook. Her back was starting to hurt. Again. Or still. She’d lost track of time. And there were voices in the dining room, laughter and glasses clinking and what sounded like David, Robin and Henry all trying to hook up the projector at the same time.

“Not double-edged,” Emma promised, brushing her fingers over Killian’s arm while he stirred. “And you’re beating this batter into submission.”  
  
“It’s got to mix.”  
  
“What’d you like the most? Peach, that’s bright and kind of summer’y, right? Oh, did you do something with chicken? I bet you did.”  
  
She tried to pull the bowl out of his hands, but the agreement was _no cooking under any circumstances_ and Killian was nothing if not very stubborn. Particularly when it came to Emma. “Baked,” he said, kissing her quick enough that her breath hitched. “Baked chicken. With basil. The judges called it, and I’m quoting here, unexpected.”

“I wouldn’t have expected that.”  
  
“Unfortunately you are not a judge on Iron Chef, love.”

Emma hummed, tugging lightly on the front of his apron. He nearly dropped the bowl. She took that was a victory. “That’d probably be a conflict of interest, right?” she asked, and there was quite a bit more to _finagle_ , which was another absolutely awful word Emma wished had never entered her mind, but the bowl sounded impossibly loud when it landed on the counter and she swore she could feel Killian’s fingers through her dress.

“Scandalous.”  
  
“That sounds kind of dramatic.”  
  
“Yeah, let’s avoid the drama if we can, huh?”  
  
She nodded or agreed or maybe just melted because it was suddenly very warm in that kitchen and her back felt like it was kind of snapping in half and she might have been swooning over the sight of her husband doing his job.

And Emma was positive, convinced in the very center of her being, that they were about to stress Eric out even more by making out in the middle of the kitchen they equally owned, but Killian’s lips just brushed over hers and he chuckled when she made a noise that was nothing short of scandalous.

“Why’d you get a cab uptown, Swan?” he asked, eyes narrowed and confident and both of those things were as stupid as they were attractive.

“I just wanted to double check on some numbers.”  
  
“Are you worried about the show?”  
  
“Why are you a mind reader?”

He chuckled, and he did kiss her that time, but it was over before it really began which, honestly, was for the best, but Emma was absurdly pregnant and, suddenly, sort of nauseous and her husband was being an enormous, slightly psychic tease.

“I’m not,” Killian promised. “But I will admit to knowing you fairly well, love, and your show is important to you. That’s not a bad thing.”  
  
“Ruby thinks it’ll be fine.”  
  
“And called in Mary Margaret to back her up.”  
  
“God, seriously, the mind reading thing!”  
  
“It’s a very gossipy restaurant, Swan.”  
  
Emma’s jaw dropped, air rushing out of her quickly enough that she actually managed to ruffle Killian’s hair. “Did she tell you that this was some kind of plan? Did everyone know? Is that why Regina was spying out her office window?”  
  
“No one was spying out any windows,” Killian argued. “Regina was patrolling the Iron Chef set so I didn’t run away before I won.”  
  
“Awfully confident.”  
  
He nodded, fingers tracing absent minded patterns on the side of her stomach – enough that it almost calmed whatever was happening in the pit of it and maybe it was actually heartburn. That happened when she was pregnant with Henry.

That was normal.

Emma thought it was normal.

“Swan,” Killian muttered, a note of near-panic in his voice, and her neck cracked when she snapped her head up. “Your eyes went all glossy, love. You want to sit down?”  
  
“I think you want me to sit down.”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Jeez, no one will banter with me today,” she groused. It was enough to work a slightly shaky laugh out of Killian, lips brushing over her forehead and the top of her hair and the curve of her jaw and David practically growled when he swung open the kitchen door. “If you don’t want to walk in on things, you shouldn’t be in places you’re not allowed to be,” Emma said. “And don’t bother telling me my sentence structure was off. I know. And I know you understood.”  
  
David nodded, lower lip jutted out in a move that was _just_ patronizing enough to fall into _older brother_ category. “At least it wasn’t Henry again.”  
  
“To be fair, I don’t think he’ll come into any room without announcing his presence anymore,” Killian said. “Loudly. Several times.”  
  
Emma groaned, letting her head fall onto Killian’s shoulder. “What do you want, David?” she asked, the question barely audible when it was, mostly, spoken into cotton.

“There are people here. For the party you guys agreed to. With food because Mary Margaret didn’t listen to you so she made those cookies you’ve been demanding for weeks. And also Regina wants to know where Killian disappeared to because, this is verbatim, _he ran away before we could figure out the vacation plans_.”

Emma’s neck was going to sustain permanent damage.

And Killian was going to glare David to death. Or something that made more sense. The English language was, clearly, something Emma didn’t entirely understand anymore.

“What does that mean?” she asked, but Killian seemed far more interested in the waffle batter and Eric was trying to ask about how hot the oil should be for empanadas. “Oh my God, Eric, we planned all of this. Three-hundred and fifty degrees. It was all on the list.”  
  
He mumbled a string of words that might have been an apology.

Killian didn’t move.

David looked a little stunned.

“Has everyone in this restaurant been making plans without me?” Emma asked, pointing at her stomach like that proved how involved she should have been. “I am pregnant. Not incompetent.”  
  
“No one said that, Swan,” Killian muttered. David now looked a little terrified.

“That’s not how it sounded.”  
  
Killian sighed, glancing at Eric and shouting a string of instructions they’d discussed in detail a week before. “C’mon, love,” he said, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and directing her back towards the short hallway between the kitchen and dining room.

Emma counted to ten, and then added five more just for good measure, waiting for David to retreat back to Mary Margaret and the cookies she really did want, before lifting her gaze to Killian. He blinked.

“It was not an active attempt to keep you out of the loop, Swan.”  
  
“Then what was it? You’re going on vacation?”

“Leave, technically. From filming. At least for a few months.”

Emma blinked. And blinked again. And Killian blinked. And blinked again.

They both kept blinking and staring and she was a mess of hunger and hormones and the laughter lingering in the back corner of her mind because this was her life and they were going to have a kid and keep making out in front of their other kid and, really, there was no other choice except to push up on her slightly wobbly legs and press her lips to Killian’s.

He didn’t flinch, didn’t stumble, barely even took a deep breath – he just reacted. And there were probably several different reasons behind that, one of which might have been the psychic ability he’d apparently picked up at some point, but most of it was likely just because he loved her right back and wanted right back and didn’t want to miss a single damn thing.

“Swan, are you crying?” Killian asked, voice just a bit breathless and if she weren’t, in fact, crying, that would have done some seriously good things to Emma’s ego.

“No,” she lied. “I am pregnant with your kid. I get to do whatever I want while I’m making out with you. Those are the rules.”  
  
“Those are the rules?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“When were these rules decided on?”  
  
“Probably at a meeting I wasn’t invited to.”

He clicked his tongue, another quick kiss and his fingers were _absurd_ , dancing over her side and across her skin and pushing into her hair until he’d cupped the back of her head and pulled her away from the wall. “That’s not what happened, love,” he whispered. “But Lucas knew you were worried about the show and the numbers and Mary Margaret did too. I don’t think any of them were expecting you to take matters into your own hand and storm the offices this afternoon.”  
  
“Ok, there was no storming.”  
  
“No? Gina said you looked rather determined.”  
  
“Determined is way different from storming,” Emma said. It was getting more and more difficult to think when Killian’s fingers kept moving. There was a game playing in the background. “You’re really not going to film for a couple of months?”  
  
Killian shrugged, eyes falling to his feet. “I was going to talk to you about it first. I just wanted to ask Gina what the schedule looked like, but uh...it’s just a thought.”  
  
“A good one.”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“Yeah,” Emma echoed, slinging both her arms around Killian’s neck until every extra inch of her touched every single inch of him. “That’s absurdly, sweepingly romantic.”

“I don’t...I want to be there, Swan. For all of it. And I’ll still cook here, but it’ll be a little less hectic if I’m not filming all summer as well and rumor had it Zelena wanted to do some kind of special thing with all the Iron Chefs and we should probably be thinking about college, but--”  
  
“--If you’re thinking about college already, then you’re way ahead of where I’m at. I’m still trying to decide what to name it.”  
  
“It?”  
  
Emma groaned, head lolling back and not hitting the wall because Killian’s hand was still there and still vaguely overprotective and her back really was starting to hurt a lot. Like. A lot. “We probably should have figured out if it was a boy or a girl,” she mumbled. “I’m kind of regretting it. They should have a name.”  
  
“Presumably he or she will have a name eventually. I can’t imagine we’d be so irresponsible not name our own kid.”  
  
He’d absolutely done it for the laugh he worked out of her, Emma’s smile settling on her face with practiced ease. “Henry’d pick if we didn’t.”  
  
“You bring up a very good point, Swan.”  
  
“You guys really weren’t plotting plans without me?”  
  
“No, love,” Killian promised. “No plotting. Unless you count Henry trying to organize the watching schedule for the entire tournament.”  
  
“I wasn’t, actually.”  
  
“Then none to be had.” His right hand fell back to her waist, thumb brushing over her side and the quiet laugh he let out when the hopefully-named-pumpkin kicked in response was enough to leave Emma wiping away more tears. “You’ve got to stop crying though, Swan,” Killian muttered. “You’re making me nervous.”

“This has absolutely nothing to do with you.”  
  
“Eh, some of it had to do with me.”  
  
“Oh my God.”  
  
“I love you,” he said, and he’d said it enough times in the last few years that it had almost become second-nature to hear it. The words mumbled in her ear and her hair and, more recently, reverently against the curve of her stomach, tucked against each other in the middle of their bed in the apartment they were, eventually, going to have to move out of, tiny pinpricks of light dotting his face and making his hair look even darker than it was.

And despite all of that, the promises and the certainty and the plans that _they’d_ come up with, eight letters in that very specific order still made Emma’s pulse sputter and butterflies erupt in the pit of her stomach and she _had_ in a way she’d never believed she ever could.

She was ridiculously happy.

“I love you too,” she whispered, tracing the tips of her fingers over the stubble on Killian’s cheek. “Just like an absurd amount.”

“Bodes well for the future.”  
  
“Yeah, I thought so.”

“Tell Regina you’re not going to film that stupid special.”  
  
“You want me to use those exact words?” Killian asked. He arched an eyebrow when he leaned back, ignoring the loud clomping of footsteps that could only be a slightly disgruntled and likely very hungry sixteen year old who didn’t want to walk in on anything again.

Emma nodded. “If you don’t use the word stupid to describe that special then I’m going to be really disappointed. And as a reminder, still pregnant with your kid.”  
  
He kissed her.

And Henry saw.  
  
“Oh my God,” he yelled, but Emma felt Killian’s smile against her own and at some point Henry had also started running his hand through his hair. “I pretty much jumped down the hallway so you knew I was here.”  
  
“That’s suggesting it was going to make a difference,” Killian said. Henry’s whole body sagged with the force of his groan.

“Did Uncle David send you back here?” Emma asked, but Henry shook his head before the question was entirely out of her mouth. “Robin?” Another head shake. “Eric via telepathy?”

“Will,” he answered before they could circle back to Regina or another Ruby-planned intervention. “Mostly so we can toast the start of the party and the arrival of the kid that is definitely a boy and we all want to eat.”  
  
“You want to eat.”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
Emma laughed. “We all know these games aren’t actually live, right? We’re all keeping that perspective.”  
  
“Crystal clear,” Henry nodded. “Can we eat the empanadas now?”  
  
“I’ve still got to finish that waffle batter,” Killian said. “And whatever we came up with for Poland.”

“Perogies. That was the most obvious one.”  
  
“C’mon, Killian,” Emma teased, pulling on his apron again and Henry gagged. “You’ve got to tone down the teenage angst, kid. Or I’m going to eat all your perogies.” He stopped groaning immediately. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. Alright, we’ll toast so Will stops whining as well and then we eat some empanadas and tour the world while you explain offsides to me again.”  
  
“It’s really not that hard, Mom.”  
  
“Try me.”

“Deal.”  
  
Henry, to his credit, did an admirable job of trying to explain offsides, but eventually lost interest when someone who was _super famous, Mom, seriously ask Killian about him_ did something _super crazy_ just outside the box and Emma, at least, knew what the goddamn box was.

There was more yelling and jumping and Leo Henry Nolan tried to climb on top of a table at one point to join in the fray – which sent several parent-type figures into several different spirals of emotion and Regina was the first one to wrap an arm around his waist, tugging him down before he could do any lasting damage to any of his limbs. And Emma ate far more perogies than she probably should have, something that felt like a fourteen-pound weight sitting in the pit of her stomach by the time Portugal beat Spain by several goals.

“Try and get some sleep,” David muttered, hours and far too many empanadas later and Emma’s beamed when she noticed the Tupperware container in her brother’s hand. “The circle of life,” he added. “Or something. And a very stubborn Iron Chef.”  
  
“Yeah, he gets that way,” she whispered. Henry was, after all, asleep next to her, his head on her shoulder and legs twisted up underneath him in a way that reminded of her of just how far they’d come.

So she was clearly on some kind of absurd sentimental roll.

And she’d eaten so many goddamn perogies.

“You pick a name for your kid yet?” David asked, grinning when Emma rolled her eyes and he barely fit on the edge of the chair, her feet propped up in front of her.

“No, you have any idea where your kid is?”  
  
“Yeah, asking that aforementioned incredibly stubborn Iron Chef to give him more cake because he really enjoyed the cake and Mary Margaret is getting the recipe written down.”

“Oh, you can’t just say shit like that, I’m hormonal.”

David’s grin got wider. “Henry thinks it’s a boy.”  
  
“So I’ve heard.”  
  
“He’s probably going to want to name him after Ronaldo.”  
  
“That’s his name,” Emma hissed, Henry mumbling when her voice got too loud. She muttered a quick apology, pressing a kiss to her kid’s head and her other kid tried to make its presence known by possibly killing her with heartburn. “I could not for the life of me remember that guy’s name. He’s got the crazy kick.”  
  
“He’s the best soccer player in the world, Em.”  
  
“That’s fundamentally untrue,” Robin added, appearing out of seemingly nowhere and maybe the restaurant wasn’t as empty as Emma thought it was.

“Who are you picking then?” Emma asked. She rolled her shoulders when she felt another twinge in her back, brushing off David’s lowered eyebrows.

“If I tell you David Beckham are you going to call me a homer?”  
  
“That would suggest I know what any of those words mean.”  
  
“Then, yes, David Beckham. But please don’t tell Killian that.”  
  
Emma nodded, eyelashes fluttering and she hadn’t been sleeping all that well, but it definitely had something to do with all that _unwieldy_ and _extra_ and she wondered if she could get Killian to just let them go upstairs and, like, sleep on the floor or something.

That absolutely would not work.

“Christian Jones,” David said, pulling Emma’s attention back and they were talking about names. Names based on reportedly famous soccer players. Names based on reportedly famous soccer players while her husband hand-wrote recipes and sent her family off with leftovers.

And, really, she should have known something was going to happen at that point.

She had, after all, done this before, but none of this was the same as it was before and Emma was comfortable and Henry was asleep and Killian came up with that cake recipe on a Saturday afternoon when it had snowed a foot and a half and the city shut down and they hadn’t left the apartment all day.

Emma came up with the ganache frosting.

She gasped when her water broke.

“Killian,” she yelled, Henry jumping up with wide eyes and mouth hanging open. The kitchen door left a dent in the wall when it slammed open, but Emma barely had time to think about that or the cost of fixing that before Killian was crouching in front of her.

“Swan,” he breathed, resting a hand on her knee, and, really laughing was not the best response, but he sounded so stunned and this was way too early and it so figured.  
  
“We should probably call a car. And maybe the doctor.”


	2. Chapter 2

She was laughing.

She was sitting there, feet still propped up on a chair and his hand on her knee and Killian absolutely should have expected it. As it was, he was a little stunned and a little terrified and just a bit more excited, breath rushing out of him as he gaped at Emma and her laugh seemed to echo in between his ears.

“Swan,” Killian said again, but she didn’t stop laughing, eyes closing lightly and teeth digging into her bottom lip. “Emma.”

That got her to stop laughing.

Of course it did.

“Aw, c’mon,” she sighed, not bothering to open her eyes. The words were a little mumbled, though, her teeth still yanking at her lip and she reached for her hand as soon as his fingers moved further up her thigh.

“I’m willing to pull out the metaphorical big guns for this one, love,” Killian grinned. Her answering laugh was shaky at best, turning into a groan almost as soon as the sound was out of her mouth and he was only slightly concerned about the state of his heart.

It felt like it was expanding and, possibly, exploding or, at the very least, just trying to beat its way out of his chest and maybe Killian should have been worried about his ribs because he was fairly certain several of them were bruised at this point and he never realized Emma’s grip was quite that strong.

He tried not to wince.

Or worry.

It was too late for that second one.

And his mind was already forty-seven steps ahead – Iron Chef schedules and filming ideas and how his heart had suffered when Regina told him Emma was at the offices that afternoon, sprinting out of the studio before he’d even shaken the hand of the opposing chef. He couldn’t remember his name.

Michael? Evan? God, those weren’t even close. It might have been Sean.

It absolutely didn’t matter one way or another because Killian absolutely did not care and didn’t want to miss a single thing and he was so goddamn _happy_ sometimes he was certain he’d wake up and realize it was all some kind of incredibly lucid, far-too-detailed dream. A dream where he got the restaurant and the success and the _kids_ , plural, because Henry was his as much as the kid they’d eventually have to name.

And Emma.

He got Emma.

He was totally freaking out.

“We probably should have prepped better,” Emma mumbled, pulling Killian’s attention back in full and she still hadn’t opened her eyes. He could dimly hear Regina’s voice, clipped and slightly anxious and he was going to have make her martinis for the rest of her life for whatever car he was assuming she was ordering.

God, he hoped it wasn’t a car. It should probably be an ambulance. Right? Jeez. That guy’s name was Kevin. It was totally Kevin.

“What?” Killian asked, and his calves were starting to protest the crouch he was still in. He didn’t move. He didn’t even try to move. He wasn’t entirely sure he could.

“Prepped,” Emma said again. “You know, like, listened to the doctor when she said we could figure out what kind of baby it is.”  
  
“I think there’s only two options, love.”   
  
“You know what I mean.”   
  
“I honestly do not.”   
  
Her eyes snapped open, but they narrowed just as quickly, and Henry was, somehow, still asleep, twisted against Mary Margaret now while David appeared intent on pacing out several trenches in the floor of the restaurant.

Killian tried to smile, but this wasn’t a dream and Emma knew him as well as anyone ever had, better honestly, and she sighed when she brushed her thumb across his cheek. “We didn’t do anything,” she whispered, a note of terror in her voice that sent a chill down his spine and made his legs ache even more. “We didn’t want to know and I just...my tastebuds are all out of whack.”

“What?”  
  
“I really need you to ask something else.”

Killian nodded. Or shook his head. He’d lost all control of all of his muscles and Regina was, somehow, still on the phone. “Be more specific, Swan,” he said. “Please. What happened to your tastebuds?”  
  
“That was part of the reason I didn’t want to film anymore. I mean, not all of it, obviously, because I couldn’t really move around set without running into something and--”   
  
“--You’re pregnant, Emma.”   
  
“A fact I am actually, painfully aware of right now.”

If asked, Killian would have gone on several records and taken several different oaths that his heart actually stopped. Right there. Crouched on the floor. In the middle of his own goddamn restaurant. While his producer threatened the EMTs.

Emma scrunched her nose, thumb tapping at the side of his mouth and Killian didn’t realize it was possible to exhale _that_ loudly until _that_ moment, but none of this was going to according to plan and Henry was absolutely positive it was going to be a boy.

“It was messing with what I could taste,” she continued, voice just a bit strained and Killian’s eyes were starting to water. He needed to blink. He wasn’t sure the moisture in his eyes had anything to do with that.

“The pumpkin?”  
  
Emma nodded. “I think so. I tried to make some kind of pasta thing I can’t even remember the name of and I put way too much salt in it and I think I nearly poisoned Elsa.”   
  
“Why was Elsa eating your food?”   
  
“I think the technical term for it is nesting.”

“That is what all the websites said. Although I don’t think they were planning on a celebrity chef trying to feed her entire crew over-salted pasta.”  
  
“That’s probably true. God, it was so bad.”   
  
“The pasta or the sauce?”   
  
“The sauce,” Emma muttered, and Killian hummed in agreement, pressing a kiss to the inside of her wrist and she hadn’t ever let go of his hand. “I’m sorry I didn’t offer you shitty, oversalted pesto sauce.”   
  
Killian chuckled, ducking his head to rest his forehead against Emma’s and his calves weren’t ever going to recover. “Somehow I think I’ll survive. Pesto, though, really?”   
  
“Eh, we were running out of ideas and everything was making me nauseous.”   
  
“You could have told me, Swan.”

She made a noise – neither an agreement nor a disagreement and she hadn’t touched a single one of the cheeseburgers she’d demanded were on the menu a week before. That might have been why Eric had been so stressed out all night.

God, they were going to have to give Eric a full week off too.

Killian needed to make a list of all the things he needed to do for his friends.

And that probably wasn’t true.

A very lucid, incredibly fantastic, slightly romantic real life experience.

That chef’s name might have been Joshua.

Emma hissed again, grimacing when she squeezed Killian’s hand and the imprints of her nails lingered even after she pulled away. “Sorry, sorry, sorry,” she mumbled, but he shook his head and tried to breathe like a normal, functional, soon-to-be father. “God, why didn’t we pick a name? Or get a definite boy-girl definition. You know Ruby and Dor are going bankrupt?”  
  
“What?”   
  
“Killian!”   
  
“Swan, you keep giving me half sentences and bits of information about your tastebuds. I’m going to have to ask for clarification.”   
  
She huffed, but there was a bit of a laugh in the sound and a hint of a smile on her face and Killian felt his jaw drop when he noticed the tears in her eyes. “We should have figured out if it was a boy or a girl. And bought more clothes. And it’s so...it’s way too early. I’m not ready for this. I can’t...”

Emma cut herself off, tears spilling onto her cheeks and a sniffle that might have been the single worst thing Killian had ever heard and there was still a goddamn soccer postgame show playing in the background.   
  
His whole body was shutting down.   
  
Killian was convinced.

His eyes bugged and his breath caught and it felt like his entire _spine_ cracked when he twisted, staring at Robin like he would, somehow, know what to do or provide some type of fatherly advice and three weeks wasn’t _much_ , but it was enough and the websites said to be cautious and several other words that didn’t do much to inspire confidence.

Killian took a deep breath. And tried to forget any words that weren’t _fine_ and _great_ and how much he wanted this life.

“It’s not, Swan,” he said softly, brushing away tears with his left hand and letting her squeeze his right to within an inch of its life. “It’s not. We’re absolutely within the realm of normal.”

“Within the realm,” she echoed skeptically. It worked another laugh out of her, shaky and watery and Robin was trying to wake Henry up.

“All the sites said so.”  
  
“God.”   
  
“It’s not too early, though?” David asked, cutting in where he absolutely was not needed, and Killian was only slightly worried his responding glare would do permanent damage to, like, the atmosphere or something.

It probably would have turned several things to stone.

It, however, did not seem to affect his brother-in-law – or how worried that brother-in-law was about his sister and his sister’s soon-to-arrive kid with a regretfully still unspecified gender.

“No,” Killian bit out, eyes darting back towards Emma. She did not look convinced.

“That was almost as bad as me telling Ruby and Mary Margaret I wasn’t worried this afternoon.”  
  
“This is an actual fact though, Swan.”

“Mine was a fact!”  
  
“Or some kind of crazed attempt to take care of everyone else,” Ruby muttered knowingly, her own phone in her hand and they were apparently tag-teaming this trip to the hospital. “The people Regina called claimed we should wait until your contractions were further together. So they’re uh...they’re not coming.”   
  
“What?” David balked, earning a clicked tongue from Mary Margaret when he woke up Henry and Leo, the previously sleeping toddler squirming in his arms.

“You’re not helping,” Emma hissed.

Henry blinked blearily, nearly falling off his chair in the process, and his hair was a riotous mess from leaning against two different bodies in the last two hours. Robin did an almost admirable job of hiding his laughter, but they were, apparently, all laughing at inappropriate times now and Killian was only slightly worried that Emma’s nails were going to draw blood soon.

“What’s going on?” Henry mumbled. Robin nearly fell over.

“Your mom is doing a very good job of not totally freaking out,” Ruby answered, shrugging when Killian turned his glare on her and Regina’s heels sounded particularly loud when she walked back into the dining room.

Henry opened his mouth, only to close it as quickly, eyes flitting from Emma to Killian and back to Emma. He knocked over the chair when he moved.

“But isn’t it early?” he asked sharply. His other hand found Emma’s, jaw tense when he swallowed and Killian tried to shake his head quickly enough that he could calm down his kid and his wife and his other kid who, it seemed, was intent on causing several mental breakdowns before he or she was even there.

Killian didn’t think it was a boy.   
  
He didn’t say that out loud.

“No, no, no,” Killian stammered, a vaguely pitiful attempt at normal. Ruby stuck her tongue out when he glared again.

“It’s totally normal,” Mary Margaret said. Her voice didn’t shake when she spoke, an easy sense of certainty that almost made Killian’s sputtering heart settle in his chest – or it did until she rested a hand on Henry’s shoulders and flashed a smile at the entire dining room like she’d just calmed down an entire classroom of unruly third graders.

Henry arched an eyebrow. And Emma’s chuckle was still a bit watery, but her smile was genuine and she didn’t argue when Killian pressed a kiss to her temple.

“There’s no rules for this,” Mary Margaret continued. “If this baby wants to be here then nothing is going to stop her from being here. And she’s going to be the most healthy, loved baby this city has seen in, at least, the last two and a half years or so.”  
  
“That’s awfully specific, M’s,” Ruby mumbled, but her own smile looked somewhere close to overwhelmed and excited and Killian couldn’t stop kissing Emma. It was like something had snapped and he needed to prove she was still there and still ok and this was happening and he was just as excited and anxious.

And so goddamn happy he was sure he was made of the feeling.

Except for that one bit of absolute and resolute terror. He was going to ignore that. At least until Henry stopped staring at him like he, somehow, had all the answers.

“It felt wrong not to include my own kid in the speech,” Mary Margaret shrugged.

“Very diplomatic, M’s,” Emma agreed. She closed her eyes again, leaning forward to try and rest her head on Killian’s shoulder, but they still hadn’t figured out the car situation or the EMT situation and he needed Ruby to stop smiling long enough to update him and make sure he didn’t dissolve into several dozen puddles of a variety of different emotions on his floor.

“It was a little off the cuff,” Mary Margaret countered, wrapping an arm around a still-pale, slightly wide-eyed Henry. Killian could feel her eyes on the back of his head, knew she could read him as well as Emma could in the moment, but Emma was the one in labor and he needed to make sure his wife didn’t realize just how much he was freaking out.

Mary Margaret kept talking.

She was going to the top of the list of people who got gifts. Or things. Or food made every day for the rest of their lives.

“This is all completely normal,” Mary Margaret said again, glancing around the room like she was waiting for someone to challenge her knowledge of three-weeks-early labor.

God, labor.

Killian inhaled slowly.

“You’re doing a very good job,” Emma whispered, barely loud enough for Killian to hear it. That might have had something to do with his unstable heartbeat. Or his pulse. That had to do with his heart too.

He was, at least, seventy-two percent positive it did.

That chef’s name was definitely Zach. Zach...Lewis? No. Aidan? None of these were similar.

“I don’t think we should wait though, right?” David asked, and he didn’t argue when Robin pulled Leo out of his arms. Roland was, somehow, still asleep, curled into one of the booths with an apron draped over his shoulders like a blanket and a plate of half-finished empanadas by his head. “Even if the EMTs aren’t coming?”  
  
“Oh my God, who do you think I am?” Ruby growled. She waved her phone through air, as if that proved anything, and Killian was trying very hard to turn her to stone with his gaze. “Relax, Jones,” she continued. “Or they won’t put that mug on TV ever again.”   
  
“It won’t matter,” Regina added. “He’s blowing off a dozen Iron Chef appearances.”   
  
“Wait, a dozen?” Emma asked sharply. “It’s that many?”   
  
Regina nodded seriously, working another tongue click out of Mary Margaret and they were all going to get detention by the time the night was over. Killian was going to carry Emma to the hospital. “What did you do, Lucas?” he asked, not trying to keep the frustration out of his voice, and his eyes fluttered shut when Emma’s fingers worked their way into his hair.

It was going to take a miracle for his calves to unclench.

“Ordered a car,” she answered simply. “Obviously. If the EMTs are going to be jerks about it, then we’re taking things into our own very capable, incredibly famous hands. Fuck ‘em.”  
  
“Seriously,” Henry muttered.

“Henry,” Killian and Emma snapped at the same time, and his face managed to get even paler.

Ruby grinned, that slow, wolf-life smile that usually ended with another cookbook or making sure Emma didn’t have to guest judge on shows she didn’t care about and Killian stopped trying to to turn her to stone. “You guys are totally ready for this,” she said. “That kid won’t even be ready for all the parenting its going to get.”  
  
“That’s not a bad thing, Lucas,” Killian muttered, groaning softly when he moved and Emma immediately curled into his side. He wrapped an arm around her, prosthetic resting on her hip and her hair had managed to get into his mouth somehow, but she didn’t look quite as worried and he hadn’t been _exactly_ timing, but the contractions did seem relatively far apart.

And he absolutely did not care.

They were getting to that goddamn hospital no matter what.

“Did I say that?” Ruby asked, glancing down when her phone dinged expectantly in her hand. “I’m just saying between you and Em, you’ve got this whole teenager thing down pat. An infant is going to be some kind of walk in the park.”  
  
“Should I be offended by that?” Henry mumbled. He hadn’t moved away from Mary Margaret yet, splotches of color on his face and hair that they probably should have been cut weeks ago, but that was a battle neither Emma nor Killian was ever going to win.

Ruby shrugged. “I mean, maybe?”  
  
“Oh my God,” Emma groaned, standing up when Killian muttered instructions under his breath. She gasped as soon as her feet landed on the floor, several hands reaching towards her and air catching in half a dozen throats, and Henry shouted _Mom_ loudly.

It woke Roland up.

“Fine, fine, fine, fine,” Emma chanted. Killian nodded, kissing her hair and her cheek and the side of her jaw, keeping his left hand on her side while his right tried to trace out patterns on her forearm and the lights overhead seemed to reflect off his wedding ring.

He figured that was a sign of some sorts. He also figured it had to mean something good.

It was going to be absolutely fine.

That terror in the pit of his stomach was just some kind of allusion. A bit of the past and what he’d lost and nothing was going to happen.

It couldn’t.

That wouldn’t part of the dream.

That would be a goddamn, fucking nightmare.

God, he hoped it was a girl.

Ruby’s phone dinged again, the sound matching up with the impatient click of Regina’s heels and Killian wasn’t entirely sure why his gaze kept searching out Mary Margaret, but her smile didn’t remind him of any animals and she looked as calm as he kept trying to fake.

“Five and a half minutes,” she mouthed, and Killian’s heart sped up again. He nodded once, pulling his lips back behind his teeth.

“The car is here,” Ruby mumbled, any hint of sarcasm gone and that was kind of jarring, but that seemed about par for whatever metaphorical course they were playing. “We can um...I mean, do you guys have stuff ready?”  
  
“Ruby,” Mary Margaret chastised at the same time Emma sighed “Oh my God” and Killian didn’t waste a moment, tugging his keys out of the back of his pocket and tossing them to his right.

“Here,” he said. “Just...go home and get--”  
  
“--A couple shirts, some sweatpants, like, several bras, some socks, and that sweatshirt that’s hanging over the back of the chair in our room,” Emma finished.

And his heart was probably just going to set several medical records at this point.

Killian didn’t tighten his arm – knew he probably shouldn’t because, according to the websites, water breaking was a sign of active labor and Emma’s lower lip likely wouldn’t ever be the same after the tug of war it had staged with her teeth – but he did kiss the top of her hair, breathing her in and smiling at the weight of her against him, the warmth he could feel practically rolling off her and that sweatshirt was his.

It was old and slightly ratty and he was only slightly worried it was going to fall apart the next time Emma put it on, but she promised it was _comforting_ and the NAVY plastered across the front of it did something absurd to several of his biological systems when she tugged it on.

Ruby saluted. “Can do,” she promised. “And like...maybe some of those clothes I maybe bought?”

“Please,” Henry countered. “You bought him an entirely new wardrobe for the entire first year of his life. And you’re never going to be able to pick. That’s how you ended up in this problem to begin with.”  
  
“That’s because your parents refused to provide me with a fashion-based direction.”   
  
“Yuh huh.”   
  
Ruby rolled her eyes, but she might have been blushing and Henry was smiling and Emma was definitely still in labor so Killian didn’t really care about anything except that last part. Except maybe _parents_ which was still taking some getting used to and had only been _official_ for a few months and he needed to start walking.

“Alright, Rubes,” Mary Margaret said, another round of orders and instructions. “You go back and get Emma some clothes. And you might as well get Killian some things too. Henry, you can come with me and David and we’ll get a different car to the hospital. Killian.”  
  
He perked up at his own name, Emma’s quiet laugh some kind of soothing sound that was incredibly greedy of him to want to hear. She tugged lightly on the front of his shirt, eyes bright and green and her fingers laced through his without a word.

“Killian,” Mary Margaret repeated, and he hummed in acknowledgement. “You need to take that car Rubes got and probably fill out a shit ton of paperwork.”  
  
Emma’s laugh left her pressed into Killian’s side, smile obvious even through the fabric of his sleeve. “You’re a worthy Admiral, M’s,” she mumbled. “With a mouth like a sailor.”

“It appears to be catching. You want to go have a kid or…”  
  
“Yeah, yeah, no way around it, huh?”   
  
“I don’t think that’s how bodies work, no.”   
  
“You are a teacher.”   
  
“Who doesn’t get that involved in bodies with third graders.”   
  
“Our educational system is lacking. Obviously,” Emma grinned, but her breath caught again and Killian’s feet moved before his brain had entirely processed the command. That felt a bit like being on a ship too. “Alright, alright, Lieutenant,” Emma said. “No need to push me off the edge of the boat or whatever.”   
  
“Ship, Swan,” he corrected, and she nodded as if it were the most serious thing they’d ever discuss. A girl.

Definitely.

With Emma’s eyes and blonde hair and she’d have some kind of monumental sweet tooth and the soccer post-game was finally over, but the restaurant was still noisy behind them – a buzz in the air that sounded like palpable excitement and happiness and Killian dimly wondered if it was all in his own head before he realized Emma was still talking to him.

“It’s going to be ok, right?” she asked softly, and he didn’t know if it was Ruby or Mary Margaret crying. It might have been Regina.

She’d stopped tapping her heel.

“Better than,” Killian promised. “C’mon, love, let’s get out of here.”

Mary Margaret was right – there was an absolute _shit ton_ of paperwork.

It never seemed to end, questions about health risks and insurance risks and Killian didn’t really appreciate those two words being paired together, particularly when the incredibly nice nurse in patterned scrubs told them there wasn’t anything they could do yet except wait.

So they kept filling things out and he tried to remember things he’d spent several decades trying to forget about his family’s medical history, ignoring the ever-growing cramp in his hand, when Emma jabbed him in the side.

“Hey,” she said brusquely. “Your face is going to get stuck that way.”  
  
Killian tried to relax his muscles, to let go of the tension he could feel lingering in between his shoulders and he hated this entire stupid city because Ruby had absolutely hit traffic in the middle of the night on the way back to their apartment.

“I’m sorry, love,” he mumbled, dumping the pile of papers on the small table next to the bed. Emma ignored him when he tried to stop her from moving, eyeing him the same way she did when Henry promised _all my homework is done and I’ll totally be back by twelve_. His homework was rarely done, but he was almost always back by midnight.

Except that one time a few months ago – and Emma had fallen asleep, her head perched on Killian’s thigh when she couldn’t keep her eyes open because she’d filmed all day and there was finally a curve to her stomach, and his fingers trailed over the slight swell of it when Henry barreled through the front door.

Fifteen minutes late.

They’d agreed never to tell Emma about that, an almost legitimate _train traffic_ excuse and slightly disheveled hair and Henry asked Killian to help him pick out a Christmas gift for Violet before they filmed the holiday special that year.

Emma probably knew all of that too.

“You’ve got, like, negative one-million things to be sorry about,” Emma said. “But I am kind of worried about your face. And the future state of it.”  
  
Killian scoffed, some of that tension _finally_ disappearing. “My face is perfectly fine, love.”   
  
“Yeah, that wasn’t very convincing honestly. How’s your hand doing?”   
  
“Fine.”   
  
“Still not that great.”

“I’m not lying to you, Swan.”  
  
“Oh, no, I know you’re not,” she said quickly, propping herself up on a mountain of pillows. She rolled her eyes when his widened. “God,” Emma mumbled, half to herself. “You’re totally freaking out, huh? Did it start with the studio thing? Or just...you know, like impending parenthood?”   
  
“What makes you think I’m freaking out?”   
  
“How many times do you want me to bring up the current state of your face and whatever you’re doing with your eyebrows?”   
  
Killian chuckled, and he swore Emma’s lips quirked when he brushed against them. “At least five more times. Until we fall into some kind of rhythm with your contractions and the doctor finally lets you get an epidural.”   
  
“You’re way more concerned about the epidural than I expected you to be.”   
  
“I’m worried about you,” Killian corrected, but it felt a bit like a much larger admission and maybe the most important admission and there were so many things that could go wrong.

He’d already seen so many things go wrong.

And he was absolutely terrified of what happened if this did too.

“We probably should have figured out if it was a boy or a girl, huh?” Emma asked ruefully, resting her palm flat on his cheek and Killian didn’t even to try and stop himself from kissing against her skin.

There were tears in her eyes.

“That was up to you, Swan,” he said. His voice cracked traitorously on the words though and there were so many machines in that room, wires and buttons and the bed they were both sitting on was as uncomfortable as several different rocks.

“You’re always waiting for me,” Emma whispered, and the tears had won out, falling down her cheeks and against his fingers. “That’s not...you don’t have to do that anymore. My previous freak out aside. You are...so good at this.”  
  
“This?”

She nodded, licking her lips and still crying and Killian wondered if he should get some kind of EKG at some point because he was fairly certain it was not healthy for his heart to keep doing whatever it was it was doing.

If it burst right there in that moment, he probably would have thanked it.

He loved her an absolutely ridiculous amount.

He loved their _family_ an absolutely ridiculous amount.

“Yeah,” Emma said, sounding a little stunned that he didn’t automatically accept the compliment. If that’s what it was. He was still a little worried about his heart. And where Ruby was. And Mary Margaret. And David. And Henry. He hoped Robin locked the door at The Jolly. “Lieutenant,” she continued softly. “Your face is under attack again.”  
  
He opened his mouth, not quite sure what he was going to say, but it might have been an apology and Emma knew that too.

“And don’t say you’re sorry again,” she laughed. “That’s stupid.”  
  
“Stupid?”   
  
“Yes, and I get a blanket pass on the state of my vocabulary while I’m in labor. Just FYI.”   
  
“That seems fair.”   
  
“I know it does. But seriously. I...God, it sounds so lame if I just tell you that I love you, doesn’t it? It’s not just that. It’s you giving Mary Margaret that recipe and asking about a vacation that’s totally just you blowing off work and all those facts you totally memorized because you’re a great big, research weirdo and teaching Henry how to do...everything and I just…” She exhaled, licking her lips again and Killian wasn’t sure what adjective to use in that moment.

He wasn’t sure there was one.

She stared at him like _he_ was the center of the universe and the sun and he understood the feeling, regularly wondered what he’d done to end up with Emma Swan-Jones in the middle of his life and the darkest corners of everything, some kind of absurd light that made everything matter and make sense and Killian _wanted_ so much he was sure several different gods would emerge from the sky and strike him down for being so incredibly selfish.

“I love you,” Emma repeated with a shrug. “And I’m sorry I didn’t take a car uptown because your face has totally been doing that thing since I told you that.”  
  
Killian’s laugh wasn’t quite that, was more a quiet breath of feeling and how glad he was that this wasn’t a dream, but Emma kissed him back anyway.

And nearly ripped his shirt in half when another contraction started.

“Fuck,” she hissed. “That is the worst thing in the world.”

He counted to ten in his head, and then counted backwards for good measure, wrapping his fingers around Emma’s wrist so he could tug her hands away from his shirt. And kiss across the line of her knuckles.

“You’re trying to get me to swoon, mid-labor,” she accused.

“Is it working?”  
  
“It might be, honestly.”

“You’re going to be incredible, you know that right?” Killian asked, the words tumbling out of him. “You already are, Swan. Everything...it’s…”  
  
“You’re usually far more articulate, Lieutenant.”   
  
He grumbled against her mouth, the ghost of a smile still there and the nurse in the doorway coughed softly. “I love you,” Killian said, trying to will the feeling into her soul or her heart or possibly their kid. _Their kid_. “So much.”

“I know.”

“Mr. Jones,” the nurse said. He didn’t move. Emma shook her head. “Mr. Jones, we’ve got to run some tests and check and see how dilated your wife is. So if you’d be so kind as to…”  
  
“No.”   
  
“Excuse me?”   
  
“No,” he repeated, doing his best to keep some sense of _polite_ in his voice. Regina would murder him in the middle of that hospital if this ended up on the cover of some gossip magazine.

_Iron Chef Makes Spectacle of Himself in Downtown Hospital - More on Page Twenty-Five_.

“Killian,” Emma muttered.

He hadn’t been holding his breath, so whatever air flew out of his lungs did not make any sense at all, but Emma’s eyes were distractingly green and the nurse was talking again.

“There appears to be a small platoon of family out there for you,” she said. “And a very nervous young man who seems to be trying to jog several miles without actually moving from the waiting room.”  
  
Killian closed his eyes – half from the visual of that and half from whatever Emma’s nails did when her fingers found his hair again and he was just enough of a selfish asshole not to tell her to stop. “Go get some coffee,” Emma said. “He’s not going to calm down until you talk to him.”

“David can do that,” Killian argued. “I don’t want to--”  
  
“--There is literally nothing for you to miss. And just think, if you take like a ten minute break, your shirt might actually hold up for the fun stuff.”   
  
“Emma.”   
  
“It’s not going to work.”   
  
Killian scoffed, pushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “Was worth a try.”   
  
“Insubordinate, Lieutenant,” she grumbled, but the threat lost most of its weight when she smiled at him. Like the goddamn sun. Several suns. At once. “Coffee.”   
  
“I’m not going to let Henry drink coffee at one in the morning.”   
  
“I know you’re not.”   
  
He kissed her before he left – and a few more times, the nurse practically blushing behind them, before Killian was certain his lungs would stand up to the ten-minute break  – and Henry was, as described, jogging out a small circle in between two rows of waiting room seats.

Henry didn’t stop moving, even when Killian walked towards him, gasping when he rested a hand on his shoulder.

“C’mon, kid,” Killian said softly, mindful of Mary Margaret’s pointed gaze and Ruby’s slightly wobbly lower lip, a questionably large bag at her feet. “Let’s take a walk.”

Henry nodded.

“We’ll run very quickly with any news,” Mary Margaret promised, squeezing David’s hand. He didn’t appear to be breathing. And quite clearly wanted to be pacing.

Killian nodded. “Thanks.”

They didn’t say anything for what felt like several lifetimes, walking down a hallway that didn’t seem to end towards a destination Killian was only slightly hopeful they’d find. He racked his brain – trying to come up with something poignant and meaningful to say, some kind of thanks for already making him a dad and how great Emma was going to be at all of this and how the sixteen-year-old in front of him was absolutely going to put Liam to shame when it came to brother-type success.

He should have known it wouldn’t matter.

Henry stopped suddenly, spinning before Killian could slam into his back, and he ran a hand through his hair, tugging on the back in a way that was equal parts familiar and just a bit jarring.

“Mom’s going to be ok, right?”

Killian nodded slowly, every one of his muscles as tense as they’d been all day – as if they were aware of the situation and the question. Henry stumbled backwards, sliding down the wall with his legs splayed out in front of him.  

“Good, good, good,” he stammered. “That’s...that’s good.”  
  
“You don’t sound entirely convinced.”   
  
“Are you?”   
  
Killian clicked his teeth, jaw snapping into place as something that felt a hell of a lot like actual ice slithered down his spine. He didn’t drown, obviously, Liam had made sure of that, but he remembered what it felt to _almost_ drown, the cold seeping into his pores and his bones until he was positive he’d never remember what it felt like to be warm again.

Everything felt heavier, the water a weight that seemed determined to pull him under, his clothes sticking to him until he was sure it was just part of his skin and part of him and everything went dark when he dove under the first wave.

They were told to dive under – never to fight it or try and swim over it, just let the current take them and work with it, as if that would make it any less terrifying.

It never did.

And it certainly didn’t in the moment.

But there were men that needed him and Liam had taught Killian well enough that he couldn’t walk away, not when everything depended on him, not when he had to do the right thing.

He’d lost that for a very long time, had lost _everything_ for a very long time, but there was a teenage kid who, sometimes, called him _dad_ sitting on a hospital floor staring at him, like he could save him and everything and Killian’s smile settled across his face as if it belonged there.

He sat down on the hospital floor too.

“Yeah,” Killian said. “I am. Your mom is...she’s the most stubborn person I know, just a hair above you, in fact, and she’s not going to let anything happen. Everything is going to be fine, simply because your mom is going to make sure it will be.”  
  
“That sounds a little bit like wishful thinking.”   
  
“It’s not. Why are you so sure something is going to happen?”   
  
Henry shrugged, shoulder bumping against Killian’s. “I don’t know. I just...it’s kind of early and some of the websites said it might not be great if it was this early and…”   
  
He trailed off, another Emma characteristic, wringing his fingers together until Killian pulled them apart and wrapped his own hand around Henry’s. “Were you reading websites?” he asked, but he knew the answer to the question already and, honestly, an EKG was probably a good idea at that point.

At least some kind of blood pressure test.

“Henry,” Killian prompted when he didn’t get an immediate answer, and he had to double check the kid next to him was still the kid he expected to see when he made a sound almost identical to Emma. “You know you could have just asked.”  
  
“I know,” Henry grumbled. “But you guys are busy and--”   
  
“--Not too busy for that.”   
  
“See, I knew you’d say that.”   
  
“It’s almost like I’m a responsible adult figure.”

Henry laughed, soft and shaky and a little nervous, but he didn’t bite his lip and that felt like a victory. “Ah, that’s not true.”

Killian couldn’t quite stop his eyes from widening or his lips from parting, the disappointment he was certain was on his face cracking through his entire being or something equally absurd. Henry looked scandalized.

“No, no, no, that’s not what I meant,” he said quickly, waving his hands and nearly punching Killian in the process. He groaned. “I just...thank you.”

Killian narrowed his eyes. “What?”  
  
“Mom was right, that’s kind of annoying.”   
  
“Nuh uh, straight answers.”

Henry let out a put-upon, decidedly teenage sigh, complete with a head roll, but Killian didn’t blink. “I know Mom doesn’t think I remember,” he started. “Before the show and the two-bedroom downtown and all of that. And I don’t remember a ton, but there’s enough that I can kind of figure it out and I heard some things and M&M’s and Uncle David talked sometimes and, well…”  
  
“She wasn’t always happy, you know?” Henry asked. Killian didn’t trust himself to speak. “She was worried about me and I know...I know Mom gave up a lot for me and to make sure I was good and happy and she worked so hard on her show and in all those restaurants and she would have kept doing that forever.”   
  
“Of course she would,” Killian said, voice scratchy even after he tried to swallow back the emotion that had taken up residence in every single inch of him. “That’s not going to stop now if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Henry clicked his tongue. “Oh my God, no, that’s not what I’m worried about. I’m not worried about anything. Well, kind of anything, but especially not this.”  
  
“You’re not making any sense, my boy.”   
  
“That! Exactly that!”

“I don’t understand,” Killian admitted, dread joining the other myriad of emotions coursing through his system, and he didn’t try to stop Henry when he jumped up.

“The last time we were in this hospital waiting for a baby, you’d been a total idiot to Mom. But you came back. And you...I don’t think she ever expected you to do that. I didn’t really expect you to do that. I was worried she was going to keep being unhappy.”  
  
“Your mother wasn’t unhappy with you, Henry.”   
  
“Jeez, Dad, shut up!”

All things considered, Killian probably should have said something, but he was kind of stunned and very frozen and Henry’s smile was a bit lopsided when he ran his hand through his hair again. “I know she wasn’t,” he whispered. “But she wanted a lot more and she deserved a lot more and I’m just...thank you. For the more, I guess.”  
  
Killian stood up slowly, pushing off the wall like trying to tread water in that wave metaphor and the chef’s name that afternoon was absolutely, positively Thomas. He owned a French-Chinese fusion restaurant uptown.

And Killian had won by double-digit points.

That felt like another metaphor.

Henry grunted when Killian pulled him towards him, an arm around his shoulder and knees bumping in the process. “That’s not something you ever have to thank me for,” he said, and it was difficult to see when he was trying to set several records for blinking in one emotionally-charged moment. “You and your mom are the most important people in my entire world.”  
  
“And the pumpkin,” Henry added. He didn’t lift his head away from Killian’s shoulder.

“And the pumpkin.”  
  
“He’s totally going to wreck at soccer, you know that, right?”   
  
“I’ve got no doubt you’ll make sure he or she does.”

Henry made a dismissive noise, still certain it was a boy, and neither one of them moved when Mary Margaret’s footsteps echoed behind them. “I did run here,” she smiled. “But then I figured it was a moment and I didn’t want to interrupt.”  
  
“Is Mom ok?” Henry asked, twisting until he was flush against Killian’s side. Mary Margaret’s smile got bigger.

“Fully epidural’ed. And asking for both of you.”  
  
Henry was a blur as soon as the words were out of Mary Margaret’s mouth, her thumb moving across her cheek when she glanced appraisingly at Killian. “That baby’s going to have so much love in its life she won’t know what to do with it.”

“That’s the second time you’ve used that particular pronoun,” Killian pointed out. Mary Margaret shrugged.

“I’ve got a feeling. And I’d really love to see great, big famous Iron Chef Killian Jones completely undone by a daughter with green eyes.”  
  
It took forever.

And then some.

And Killian was briefly concerned for the state of his right hand and the floor Henry was pacing in the hallway, David just a few steps behind him, but then forever was over and there was screaming and sighing and crying and several different machines made several different noises.

And it took, exactly, two and a half seconds and one slightly irregular heartbeat for great, big famous Iron Chef Killian Jones to be completely undone by a daughter with blue eyes.

And a tuft of blonde hair.

There was soccer playing in the background when she was born.

“Seems almost cyclical, doesn’t it?” Emma asked breathlessly, staring as a team of doctors and nurses poked and prodded and their daughter might have shown up early, but she was not lacking for lungs. Or the capacity to use them.

“What does, Swan?”

She rolled her eyes, but he kissed her hair and her forehead and the tip of her nose and if this was another wave, Killian was more than happy to drown in it.

“A proposal with one soccer game, a kid with another,” she said. “Just seems cyclical. You think we can get Henry to like...only graduate when some other major soccer event is happening? Maybe stage graduation on the field? And don’t tell me it’s a pitch, I just gave birth to your kid.”  
  
He nodded, but the nurse was back and there was a bundle in their arms and they had a _daughter_ and a waiting room full of people who probably expected said daughter to be named.

They only let Henry in at first.

“Well,” Emma said, trailing a finger over a tiny arm and an even tinier fist and Henry looked a little shocked. “What do you think, kid?”  
  
He tilted his head. “About?”   
  
“A name,” Killian answered. “You’ve got a good track record sharing with Leo, so we figured we’d give you dibs.”   
  
“Dibs.”   
  
“Something a little more responsible.”

Henry’s eyes bugged, but he didn’t make any noise, eyes flitting towards the TV screen and the soccer game and someone had just scored. The metaphors were honestly absurd. “Ryan,” he said, the name coming out like a question.

“Is that a soccer player?” Killian asked.   
  
“The Australian goalie may or may not be named Matthew Ryan.”   
  
“Sounds like a yes.”   
  
“I mean you can’t call her Matthew. What’s another version of that? Matilda? Then you get into Roald Dahl territory and things get weird and...Ryan Swan-Jones sounds pretty cool.”

Killian glanced at Emma. She was already crying and nodding and Ryan Swan-Jones hadn’t exercised her lungs once since the nurse placed her in Emma’s arms.

“I love it,” Emma whispered.

Henry did, eventually, let the rest of the waiting room in – David carrying the overnight bag and Will brought champagne from The Jolly and they toasted several different futures and watched the rest of the game and France beat Australia by one goal in pool play.

And it was good and great and _so goddamn perfect_ it simply had to be real, because no dream could ever be like this, a fact Killian was sure he’d tell Emma when he could keep his eyes open and Mary Margaret took a photo of all _four_ of them, asleep in the hospital room with the TV on mute and a different game playing.

The frame was already hanging on the wall in the living room when they came home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fluff on fluff on fluff on fluff. This is...a lot of fluff. And was mostly an excuse for me to write Henry and Killian bonding. So anyway Killian is the best dad and will continue to be the best dad and I have thoughts and feelings and will, maybe, one day write the rest of the OOTFP sequel I have all plotted out. 
> 
> Come flail on Tumblr if you're down: http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, hi, hello there! So I got a message asking if I was going to write World Cup fic and I was like...I mean, I could. Here is said attempt. Lots of fluff and baked peach chicken is apparently a real thing that someone made on Iron Chef once. 
> 
> Killian's POV on Tuesday with, somehow, even more fluff. Come flail on Tumblr if you're down: http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/


End file.
